Sherlock puts his hands up and allows himself a small smile. "Mr. McKellig. I can't say you were the man I expected to find down here."

He slowly sets down his gun and kicks it out of reach, as instructed. John follows suit.

John is wound tight, smouldering besides him, Sherlock can see him estimating exactly what his chances of taking the former sailor out are, he'd probably have a good shot at if Sherlock caused a diversion, but that's not how Sherlock wants things to happen tonight and John's still injured, not working at peak strength by far, Sherlock thinks they can talk the man down…

He gives his head a barely perceptible shake and mouths "not yet" at his friend, who backs down minutely. They turn slowly to see the burly farmer with a rifle, sweating profusely.

"You know, there's two of us and one of you," Sherlock observes dispassionately. "And we are quite a bit younger. Even with you armed, there's a fair chance we could take you down before you could shoot us both. Perhaps before you could even shoot one of us."

McKellig shifts nervously and tightens his grip on the weapon. "Not that I'm bothered by it, but I seen you two together – I don't think either of you are goin' to risk that. Now, stand closer together so's I can keep an eye on both of you," he orders.

They do as told, Sherlock watching the man carefully. He's desperate, but he's not a killer, not at heart, although he's scared enough that anything could happen.

"I'm really very impressed, Mr. McKellig," Sherlock says smoothly. "It's an unusually clever plan. I had assumed that this was the work of several men, a crime ring even…but you pulled it all by yourself, didn't you? You built a portable hydraulic system to trigger the trapdoor stones, lower down the foundation blocks, and seal it all up behind you. You didn't need strength, you had brains."

He didn't look like he had brains at all, it's always pleasant to have someone surprise him like that, proof that the human race is not entirely cause for despair, still, continuing once the case had come to Sherlock's attention had been foolish, revisiting the site when he knew people were out searching, would see his light, that was sloppy, disappointing, emotion was running the show now…

"And thirty years of experience with hydraulic machinery, and some amateur masonry." He's still sweating, but he looks pleased at the recognition.

"I just have one question," Sherlock tells him.

"Oh, just one?" John hisses.

"What was in those stones?"

"Nothing for you to be concerned about," snaps McKellig.

"It's war spoils, isn't it? German treasure from the Great War? Your grandfather brought it back and hid it here until it would be safe to sell. You said you were here…what was it, trying to keep up the 'family legacy'? You meant recover and sell illegal artefacts to fund your comfortable retirement."

"You'd never understand. And it doesn't matter. I just have one more cache to remove, then I'll have everything and no one around here will ever see me again. You can tell Sir Victor I'm sorry for what I done to his house – I woulda put them all back, but my system wasn't powerful enough to lift them to back up, only to ease them down. I was planning to fix it, to make it right, but then you two turned up and I was out of time."

"So there's still one more stone with treasure in it?" John pipes up. "How are you going to manage that, then?"

"What?"

"Well, what are you going to do with us? Let us go and we'll run call the police. Even if you escape you won't ever get back in here."

"I'll tie you up," he says uncertainly, glancing back and forth from John to Sherlock. "I'll call to tell someone where you are once I'm clear."

"Ahh, but if you're tying us up, who's holding the gun? You're only other option is to shoot us. And I don't think you're up for that, not really. I know what a murderer looks like, and you aren't it. Come on now… put down the gun and we won't say anything about it. You can come with us and we'll all explain to the police together, all right?"

John is inching towards McKellig in his most harmless, appeasing posture. Sherlock doesn't like it, McKellig is under too much stress to be predictable, but John's done this before.

John knows how to talk to people, how to soothe them, his bedside manner impeccable, he might just be able to hypnotise the gun away from him, he'd certainly got Sherlock to do plenty of things he never intended without quite noticing until he'd already done them…

"That's right. We don't want anyone to get hurt…"

The man's resolve seems to be wavering and he starts, slowly, to lower the barrel of the rifle. But then John takes one more step and he panics. "Get back!" he shouts and John jumps away from him, hands up again. "Stay still, don't try anything… I just need to think, let me think!"

"There's no other way out," Sherlock tells him. "You're only making it worse for yourself. We can still pretend this never happened."

"No, I can't believe you!" He's breathing heavily now, hands shaking but his aim would still be sure at such close range. "I'll just… I'll just have to shoot you both, just to keep you here, I'm sorry about it, I'll try not to hurt you too much, but you don't understand what this means to me. I have no choice."

He points the rifle at Sherlock's foot and Sherlock can feel John ready to spring next to him, coiled and humming with energy. If McKellig pulled that trigger he wouldn't have a chance to do anything else before John got to him, and that would be very unfortunate for him. Before either of them can make a move, a bullet whistles past McKellig's head and embeds itself in the earth of the chamber wall behind him.

"No one's shooting anyone if I have a say in it," says Victor, as he steps out of the darkness of the tunnel that had brought them, holding an antique pistol. "Angus, give me the gun. I know you're upset, but you are not going to hurt my friends. And I don't think you'd like having to live with yourself if you did. You're not that kind of man."

Victor must have followed them, he's smarter than Sherlock had given him credit for, Sherlock ought to be annoyed with him, but given the circumstances it prevents a rather messy conclusion, Sherlock's not afraid of a bullet wound, he's had many, but it is inconvenient and puts a damper on his work, which he hates…

Victor walks slowly up to McKellig. "You don't know what kind of man I am," the burly man wails, looking increasingly trapped and frightened.

"Yes, I do." Victor's voice is steady and warm. "I've seen you at church, you always help set up the tables for coffee hour and you volunteer to clean the chapel once a mouth. You always polish the rails even though you don't have to. Last week you towed Mrs. Hart's car out of the ditch and all the way home, and you patched her tire. You're gentle with your animals, and you always send along something to anyone who gives you farming advice. You're not the kind of man who would steal another man's property or endanger lives or hurt people on purpose. So whyever you're doing this, I'm sure you have good reason, and I'm prepared to listen to it if you're prepared to help me to do that. Okay?"

By now Victor is within arms' reach of McKellig. He holds out his hand sternly and after a long, tense pause, McKellig hands over his rifle and sinks to the floor. The three other men let out long breaths. Victor tosses the weapon to John, who unloads it and retrieves his and Sherlock's sidearms from the floor.

He'd known Victor could talk almost anyone into anything, but this was a new level, he'd be impressed if he wasn't irritated not to have been able to finish things himself, still at least now they could get to the bottom of things without any hospital trips…

"All right now, why don't we all put our guns away and we can talk like civilised people," Victor says. Sherlock rolls his eyes, but John helps McKellig up and guides him to sit on the nearest block.

"Would you rather tell us your story now, or wait until you're at the station?" Sherlock demands.

McKellig shrinks back from him a bit, but nods. He bears the attitude of a defeated man. "Yes, sir. I am sorry I tried to… I wasn't myself. Haven't been really."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow and taps a foot impatiently.

McKellig clears his throat. "Well, it starts with my grandparents, as you rightly guessed. My grandfather's ancestors had farmed the land around Corvin Castle for decades, maybe centuries. When he was young he joined the army, trekked around Europe and eventually came home to take over the farm with a young bride, my grandmother. They weren't married too long before the Great War began, and he knew it was only a matter of time before he was conscripted, along with his brothers and most other young men in the area. My grandmother feared what would happen to her when he was gone. She knew being a German Jew living alone wasn't safe in that political climate, and the locals already mistrusted her.

"She begged my grandfather to help her hide her most treasured possessions, everything of value she'd brought over from the old country. He thought she was crazy, but he loved her. So he got his brothers to help him – Corvin Castle was already abandoned then, after the east tower toppled, but he knew about the passageway, and knew about the hollowed out stones a Scottish owner had installed hundreds of years before to keep his wealth from the British. Of course they had to pry the stones out with just crowbars and muscle, but they were strong lads. They hid what my grandmother gave them, where no one would ever guess, not even if they turned this place upside down.

"My grandmother's premonition was right. Once her husband was gone and the War was going badly, suspicion fell on her that she was a spy. Or a witch. Depending on who you asked. I don't think she spoke much English, which only deepened the conflict. She became fearful and rarely came out of their home. She had a little girl, and rumours started that she must be mistreating her, starving her, that she planned to steal her from my grandfather and raise her as a Jew, all sorts of lies. Hysteria was running high, particularly so close to the coast, people expected a German invasion any moment.

"A mob formed. They planned to scare her and take the baby to be kept by a proper Christian family until someone else from my grandfather's side came back. But things got out of hand. She barricaded the house, but eventually the townspeople got in. There was pushing and shoving and rough words. They took the baby and somehow a fire started. My grandmother wouldn't leave the house, she was too distraught, and she burnt to death."

Sherlock's history is spotty except in a few highly specific areas, but John is nodding thoughtfully and he's obsessed with military history, the timeline at least must fit, did he have any reason to lie about it now, no he's done, he's given up now, Sherlock can see it in his eyes, any deceit he'd had is gone, he's in their power completely…

McKellig continues. "Soon after, word came that my grandfather and his brothers had all been killed. My mother ended up in an orphanage. She never knew a word of this, and died herself before I was out of school."

"Then how do you know all this?" Sherlock asked. "That's a lot of detail for something that happened before you were born."

McKellig shook his head. "It was like a miracle. About twenty years ago, the orphanage my mother grew up in was shut for good. The attic must have been full of the things kids had come in with, and there was a box of my mothers things – they had been stored when she came as an infant and then forgotten – she'd never seen them. Some kind person had taken it upon themselves to track down the all the grown children or their living relatives and return the items to them.

"My mother's box had baby clothes, a few handmade toys, and some letters my grandmother had written to my mother regarding where her possessions had been hidden. Before the house burned down, she'd tossed a bundle of things for my mother out the door, which included those letters. They were in Yiddish, of course, but I had them translated and then I managed to track down the rest of the story in local archives and by asking around, former orphanage employees, locals here, that sort of thing.

"I wanted to desperately to get my grandmother's treasures back, but from the description I knew I'd need a lot of help or a lot of equipment, and a reason to be around the place. It took time to get together what I needed and save up enough money to rent out a farm on the land and make a credible go of it. Finally, when I heard the castle has been sold, I knew it was my chance. It took two years to find the tunnel and outfit the chamber so I could get the blocks out myself, and I thought I'd be done months ago, put them back and be gone before anyone knew what had happened, but I had equipment problems and things dragged out and then you two came up and I started to panic…" He put his head in his hands.

"That's all very touching," Sherlock says. "Fascinating story, really. But, what, exactly, were these treasures that were worth so much?"

How much wealth would a foreign bride have brought with her, if she was marrying a poor English farmer, couldn't have been that much, from McKellig's story she sounded comparable in class to her husband, perhaps they were things that would be very valuable now, antiques and handiwork that could be sold, that must be it, knick-knacs would hardly be worth the effort he'd gone to…

McKellig reaches into his jacket and pulls out a thick envelope, handing it to Sherlock. "This isn't all of it, but it's what I found in the last stone. The rest are like them."

Sherlock reaches into the envelope and pulls out… nothing. Well, not nothing, but no jewels or money or anything he'd anticipated. There were journal entries. Letters. A few black and white photos of dour-looking individuals. A hairpin, a signet ring, neither expensive or particularly well made. A piece of paper containing what looked like a family tree.

"What is this?" he demands.

"It's… my history. My family records from my grandmother's side. Genealogies, pictures, correspondence from all her relatives. Everything she had that tied her back to her home."

Sherlock is incredulous, and Victor and John look scarcely less so. "Let me see if I understand," says Sherlock. "You spent years of your life, thousands and thousands of dollars, all your energy, to create an elaborate cover and a highly technical system of mechanisms, even being willing to shoot and injure two people to recover… letters? Paperwork? This is your treasure?"

McKellig sighs, looking old suddenly, but he meets Sherlock's gaze almost fiercely despite his seeming level of brokenness. "Mr. Holmes, do you know what it's like to have no one? No people at all?"

Sherlock opens his mouth to say of course he does, but stops himself.

He likes to think he does, that he's an island unto himself, but it's not true, he's got Mycroft and they hate each other, but he still exists and imagining a reality in which there had never been a Mycroft was simply not possible even if it sounds rather pleasant, he'd got other relations too, he never spoke to them but that isn't the same as not having any, and John, of course there is John, John is his family, even if he had no one else ever, he still has people if he has John…

"No…" he says at last.

There is a silence, then Victor clears his throat. "I know what it's like, Angus."

The farmer looks at him in gratitude. "My mother's dead, I don't have an extended family, never met my father and from what I hear I'm lucky about that. I got no wife nor children, no siblings. It's just me. And when I die that'll be done with. I thought if I could find my grandmother's things I could find my family, on the continent or wherever they scattered to. Find out who I was, be a part of something. Have people who knew I existed and remembered me when I died. I didn't care how much money or time it cost, it's the only thing that mattered in the end."

"And that's…all there is to it?" Sherlock is still unbelieving.

"That's it. I was going to put everything back as soon as I could, wrap up my business on the farm, and then go try and find my German family, learn what it means to be Jewish after all this time, maybe go to Israel... But now…" he puts his head in his hands. "…now it's all for nothing."

"Well, Victor," Sherlock says brightly, rubbing his hands together. "You have your answer. I was certain from the beginning that there had to be something important hidden inside of them, although I can't say I expected…this. In any case, have you called the police or shall we take him back with us now and call them?"

"Sherlock," John whispers angrily, flicking his eyes at the despairing figure before them. "Sympathy!"

Sympathy for what, for a foolish man who's wasted his life looking for something that likely he will never find, spent all his resources on a silly dream, he did cut a pathetic figure but it was his own fault, why do Victor and John seem so affected by his story…

He gives John a blank look, but Victor is talking.

"Angus, what I don't understand is why you didn't just come to me in the first place?" He sounds disappointed. "I would have allowed to you retrieve your property as long as it didn't cause permanent damage, of course I would have. I would have helped! I spend all my time researching this history of this area – you don't think I would have loved a story like that?"

McKellig dips his head even further. "I'm sorry, sir… I never thought… I mean they were in your home and it seemed like so much to ask, and if you'd said no…I'd never have another chance.

Victor nods. "All right. Well, I don't think the police are going to be necessary, at least on my part. Now, if Sherlock or John wants to press charges for your threatening them, I'm not going to stop them… but as long everything gets put back the way it was, I have no argument with you."

He looks to John and Sherlock. Sherlock opens his mouth but John cuts in first. "No, we're… we're not going to pursue anything. Are we Sherlock?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "No. But only because you never pulled that trigger."

McKellig looks overwhelmed. "Thank you…thank you, Sir Victor, thank you two… I am so sorry… I never meant to… You're all very kind…"

Victor is kind, John is kind, Sherlock is baffled, but they do have a point, there's no real reason to have him put away, he didn't actually hurt anyone and he's not going to reoffend unless he's got family record stashed in another historic building, still Victor ought to be angrier over the damage to his property and difficulty it's all caused but that's none of Sherlock's affair, he supposes…

"It's all right," Victor assures him magnanimously. "We'll get you the rest of your things and perhaps when you're done using them to find your family, you'll allow me to display some of them in the little museum I'm planning, along with a bit of your family story? It's an important part of Corvin Castle's legacy. Sherlock, why don't you and John go back? I'd like to talk with Angus and help him with his last extraction. I'm curious to see how it works, and I'm sure John could use a rest."

"I could do, at that," John admits, which means the pain is really bad again, and Sherlock agrees.

"Too bad whatever passage between the castle and down here that existed is blocked up," John comments as they trudge back down the tunnel. "I can't say I fancy walking, what, six kilometres, to reach a place that is basically right above my head."

"Mmm…" says Sherlock, lost in thought.

"Something bothering you?"

"Everything about this bothers me. McKellig's story was obviously true, but it doesn't make any sense. So much effort for so small a thing, he doesn't even have any guarantee he'll find his people, or if he does that they will be interested in knowing him. The risk/reward ratio is completely off. And Victor… all the expense and the trouble this had caused him. He just waved it off like it didn't matter. Sentiment, again?"

"Something like that. Look, neither of us talk much about our pasts and our families, even to each other, right? Even after a year, even after we became…us… We still don't often delve too deeply."

It's true, there's a lot he doesn't know about John, he's deduced some and could find out the rest if he tried, sometimes John shares things unexpectedly, but he doesn't like to think too much about John-before-Sherlock, that person was different, that person wasn't his friend, it made him think of how things might have been different, if John had never joined the army, if John had died of his wounds, if John had never been wounded and not come home, it did not rest easy in his mind, just like contemplating where he had nearly ended up, how close he'd come to…

"It doesn't matter what came before, John. This is what matters, now."

"I agree, mostly," John says. "But we know. We know who were are and who our parents and grandparents were and who we came from. We might ignore it or regret or loathe it, but we know. Can you imagine having a mystery like that and living it with it for years with no hope, and then suddenly finding out everything you need is with arm's reach?"

When put that way, it does make sense to Sherlock.

It would be torment, complete torment, not that he'd actually want to have anything to do with any family he might discover, but not knowing would be unacceptable, it would have to be solved before he could tend to anything else…

"And Victor… he also has no family, so he's sympathetic to McKellig's plight."

"Exactly. It must be even worse for him, really, because he thought he knew who he was for a long time and then suddenly he didn't any more. I'm sure he'd do anything to get that back, but the closest he can manage is helping out McKellig."

"You feel for him too?"

Maybe this is why Victor clings so stubbornly to his faith, he said he liked to feel like he was a part of something, he had no people so the church gave him a simulacrum of family, McKellig had joined the navy for the same reason, he guessed, even John's entry into the army had been a means of gaining connection, Sherlock doesn't understand that need, he doesn't want to be a part of something bigger, he prefers to be the something bigger himself, which is what had drawn John and Victor to him to begin with…

"I do," John admits. "He didn't mean any harm. And you have to agree, it's rather nice."

"What is?"

"Solving a case where everyone lives and there's not actually a bad guy. Victor has his answer, and a new compatriot, we both got one hell of a chase out of it, and McKellig is going to find his past. It's a good day, Sherlock," John declares, slapping him on the back. The sun is starting to come up over the ocean.

"I suppose it was," says Sherlock, brightening. "Now, lets get back – I'm famished!"

"We should get the first train in the morning," Sherlock comments that night, folding his shirts precisely. They had slept away most of the day after the overly exciting night before, and helped Victor with some loose ends, but now there was nothing left to do. "The sooner we're back in the city, the better."

John agrees. "Are you going to say goodbye to Victor?"

"I said goodnight. I don't imagine he'll be up before we leave."

"Hmm." John makes a thoughtful noise, but says nothing.

Sherlock continues packing for a moment, then says, "Do you think I ought to say something else?"

"If you're asking my opinion honestly… yes, I do."

"What would I say? Why?"

John sighs and asks a question Sherlock does not expect. "Sherlock, did you love him?"

"John, you know I don't –" he begins sharply, but John shakes his head.

"I know, I'm not talking about you now. I'm talking about eighteen-year-old you, maybe a little less cynical, a little innocent, spending hours and days and months with someone you couldn't take your eyes off of, feeling that pull for the first time… Did that Sherlock love him?"

Sherlock falls silent. Had he?

He detests the thought of it now, but what had he been like all those years ago, when he still retained some shred of youthful optimism, it hadn't been like any of the things that had been introduced to him as love before, but it had felt like some of the poetry Victor had read aloud to him in the evenings, like the little compositions Sherlock had written and played just for him, was that what most people meant when they said love…

"I think… I may have," he says at last, with difficulty, cringing even as he says it.

John nods knowingly. "Well, I think you should go tell him that."

"Why?"

"Because he still loves you, loves you enough not to say a word about it, enough to not even try to come between us. He deserves some recognition of what you had, some closure."

"How do you know? And what would it serve?"

"I know what it looks like," John sighs. "Sometimes when I see at him looking at you it's so clear that it hurts to watch. And because I have you and he doesn't and never will again, and he should at least get to hear it one time in his life and know that it was real then, even if you hate the whole concept now. Even if you don't think you really mean it."

Sherlock notices that John is wavering a bit, like a candle almost being blown out, and is clearly in distress. Sherlock sits next to him on the bed, legs and sides touching. He's upset, Sherlock can feel it, but he's not sure what to make of it. A thought occurs to him, a bit of a horrible one, but he had better to ask to be certain.

"John…Do you need to hear—"

He can't do it, can't ever say it to John, not even pretend he can, it's so wrong, it's the antithesis of everything they are, isn't it, but what if John needs that and he can't give it to him, what then…

John shakes his head vehemently before Sherlock is forced to finish the sentence. "That's not what I'm saying at all. I'm fine. I'm yours and you're mine and that's all we need. Don't worry."

Sherlock relaxes. "Then why are you so concerned about what I say to Victor? It's likely neither of us will ever see him again."

"Because I can imagine what it would be like to be him. I think about what it would be like to have you and lose you and then have to watch you with someone else, and it… it breaks my heart."

Sherlock doesn't understand this, but he trusts John's judgement in these matters and he doesn't want to upset him any more. He doesn't want to upset Victor either, and he had thought that refraining from talking about that part of the past the best way to prevent it. But perhaps he had misjudged.

"You won't be angry? I would think that my saying something like that to someone else would hurt you."

"No. Not like this."

"You're being… compassionate?"

"Compassionate would have been for us not to come here, I think. Merciful is the best I can do now."

Sherlock understands that even less, but nods and slips quietly out of the room to find Victor. The castle is a maze, but he eventually finds him on a terrace on the second floor. After three nights of cold and fog, a new air system has moved in and it's an unusually warm evening, no wind to bring a chill. Victor is leaning against the railing, smoking a pipe, and watching the ocean beneath the bright stars.

Perhaps he doesn't actually need to say it, perhaps there is a way to give Victor resolution without getting into it, Sherlock must be able to make him see somehow…

"Leaving first thing, then?" Victor asks without turning around to see who it is. Sherlock goes to the railing as well, but they don't look at each other.

"Yes, I believe so. Unless there's anything else you need."

Victor shakes his head. "You've done me a great service. That's all I can ask. You're a faithful friend, Sherlock, even after so many years. Thank you."

The words are right but even Sherlock can hear that the tone is strangely flat, like he is unable to keep up his usual good cheer.

"Victor," he begins hesitantly, then stops, unsure of what to say next.

There is a long silence, and then Victor says suddenly. "Do you remember my father's orchard?"

In an instant, Sherlock is back there, with a vividness that is startling.

Sherlock is sitting with his back to an apple tree on a hot summer afternoon, poring over an anatomy textbook and gnawing idly on a green apple, completely absorbed and unaware of the sunny day or the blue sky or the peaceful idyll which surrounds him. Out of nowhere, an arm reaches down and snatches his book out of his hand.

A red haired boy is perched on a tree limb above him, and he laughs like a sonata and tosses Sherlock's book into the air, catching it again easily.

"Victor, give that back! I need to finish it."

"It's holidays, Sherlock. You're missing a perfect day." His laugh tinkles again. "Your books will still be there tomorrow."

Sherlock scowls and Victor flips easily out of the tree, still holding the book and landing on his feet in the tall grass. Sherlock makes to grab his property, but Victor is quicker, slipping it behind his back and ducking around the tree trunk.

"You'll have to catch me if you want it!" he calls, making for the shelter of another of the ancient trees around them. "I'm not letting you mope another glorious summer day away!"

Sherlock chases him, furious at this intrusion and at the delighted giggles Victor is taunting him with. "See, you're having fun already!" he calls to Sherlock. He vanishes in a dense patch of trees. Sherlock follows and stops in the middle, listening keenly for breathing. Slowly, he approaches the oldest, most gnarled of the group and, in a flash, pops around the other side, snaking an arm out and grabbing Victor by his slender wrist, finding their faces suddenly only inches apart.

"Got you," Victor says breathlessly.

Sherlock looks puzzled. "You caught me?"

Victor grins and darts forward, pressing his lips to Sherlock's. Sherlock tastes tart fruit and green grass and sunshine. His eyes blow wide as Victor pulls away, still grinning. "Yep. I got you."

Sherlock forgets completely about his book, merely staring at his companion in surprise and something akin to happiness, until Victor laughs once more and says, "Now, you can either come swimming with me or you can watch me toss your book in the lake!"

He takes off running, barefooted, through the orchard as it slopes down the pond below, and with only a little hesitation Sherlock follows, for the first time in his life looking forward to a swim…

"I…I remember it fondly," Sherlock says, shaking himself out of his reminiscence. "Very fondly."

Victor nods beside him. "You know, I built those hives for you."

"For me? But… you hadn't seen me in years."

"I took up beekeeping because it reminded me of you. I never really thought you'd see them, but whenever I worked on them I thought of you."

Sherlock is lost now, but realises he has to say something.

"That was…kind of you to want to remember me," he offers, but Victor doesn't reply.

The silence hangs uncomfortably and Sherlock fidgets. He tries again, even more awkwardly.

"Victor… the orchard…our time together... those kisses..." Victor's head jerks up. Neither of them had ever mentioned it directly before, not even when it happened. "They number among my most precious memories."

"Mine too," Victor says in almost a whisper.

He was hoping that would be enough, but it's not, John's right, Victor needs something more, Sherlock doesn't know if he can give it to him, at least not now, maybe once, maybe if that golden day hadn't slipped away into the nightmare that Victor's life became and they had been allowed to finish growing up together, but it's gone and can't come back, Sherlock doesn't want it to because there is John now and nothing is better than that, still Sherlock owes Victor something, he understands that now...

It goes against every instinct, every practise Sherlock has trained himself to have for nearly two decades, but he sees no other way out. He doesn't have to like it, but it would be cruel not to say it at least once. He doesn't want to be cruel, not to Victor, not to John. They may be the only two people Sherlock never wants to be cruel to, even if he often is.

He puts a hand on Victor's shoulder, who blessedly still does not turn to look at him. "Victor, I know I never said… we never said…" Sherlock begins with difficulty. "But I think I should tell you... I did…love you. And I should have made sure you knew that before you went away."

Victor bends his neck to press his cheek against Sherlock's cool fingers for a moment, letting out a long sigh. "I… I loved you as well," he says in a carefully controlled voice. He puts his lips to the back of Sherlock's hand and kisses it for a long moment, meeting Sherlock's pale eyes with his sad, but grateful, blue ones.

Sherlock wonders if he should say anything else, but Victor has turned back to the ocean. He leaves quietly and goes back up to their bedroom, where John is in bed but not asleep. He sits on the edge of the mattress. John comes over to him and wraps his legs around Sherlock's waist and his arms around Sherlock's chest, resting his chin on his shoulder. "All right?"

"That was…painful. Why was that painful? Shouldn't it have felt…better?"

"Sometimes things that make us better don't feel like it at the time. I'm proud of you for doing that, I know it wasn't easy but it was the right thing."

"Yes, I think it was," whispers Sherlock. "I just didn't expect to…"

"To what?"

"To mean it."

"I know."

"And it's okay? Even though I can't…I don't… with you… It's awful of me, I should… but somehow it's not right, I can't make those words match what I think about you, they seem wrong and hateful and like they represent everything I don't want us to be… And yet with Victor they seemed right. How is that possible?"

They had seemed right, it was quite a shock, suddenly realising that he had loved someone once, someone other than his mother, and his brother when he was very small, he feels guilty now for thinking it, wrapped in the arms of a man he can't ever love, of course John is a category apart from all that, far more vital, a category that includes oxygen and water and light, but normal people don't understand, John's not normal but he craves love, Sherlock knows, if he doesn't have it will he sicken and fade and go out…

John is silent for a minute, but still holding Sherlock tight as ever, flickering tenderly against his cheek, warm and orangey, like a caress. Finally he says, "That's because those words were what the eighteen-year-old Sherlock needed to say to the eighteen-year-old Victor. You're older now, you're different now. Maybe if you had ended up staying with him, you'd think about it otherwise, but you didn't, you became someone else, you found your way to me, and what we have is not what you and he had and never could be. That's why the words don't work for me, because they mean something entirely separate to you now. And I don't need them, I have you."

He kisses the back of Sherlock's neck. "Besides, we have plenty of words between us, don't you think?"

So many words, their own language they have built between them, imperfect and forever in progress, but enough to make each other understand, which had once seemed impossible, good and Not Good, yours and mine, dwarf star, dark nebula, countless insults-turned-endearments, a hundred terms for darkness and a thousand for light which blazed together in moments when no other words could bear the weight…

He pulls Sherlock backward until they are face-to-face on the bed, with John's arm under Sherlock's head and his other hand on Sherlock's hip.

"You look like a lamppost in the snow at night," Sherlock tells him, because he does.

"And you are my favourite dark star in the sky," John replies.

"John… do you…" Sherlock begins, then halts.

"Do I what?"

"I realise I'm not always…good… at understanding what people need. I had no idea what Victor needed. I had no idea I needed it too."

John smiles. "Well, that's what you have me for."

"Indeed. But I think I must ask… do you have what you need? Sometimes I think I must neglect you terribly, and I don't want you to… wilt…"

John raises an eyebrow. "I'm not cut flowers, Sherlock. I have ways of expressing and obtaining the things I need. Look, emotionally this isn't like any other relationship I've ever been in or even heard of. But I don't want it to be. Yes, it would be easier if things were more typical as far as that goes, but it's also wouldn't be you."

"You'll tell me though? If you need something and I'm not… I don't…"

"Well, this is a new one," John says thoughtfully. "You making me promise to talk to you about how I'm feeling. This might even count as progress."

"John…"

"Yes, Sherlock. I promise. Better?"

"Much," agrees Sherlock happily.

"Good. Now, I've had about as much of the country as I care for. Let's go back to Baker Street. I'm ready to be home."

Home, Sherlock likes the sound of that, he doesn't like to be away too long, 221b has become as much apart of his identity as his clothing and his lab equipment and his habitual antagonism of his brother, he doesn't feel like himself when he's gone for long periods of time, but being away from Baker Street with John is still preferable to being there without him, thankfully he doesn't have to choose right now and hopefully not ever…

"Yes," he says. "Home."